


Switching Goals

by betp



Series: From Tumblr [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Rule 63, Stiles is temporarily a girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 12:40:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betp/pseuds/betp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re kind of cute,” Lydia says, changing the subject, “in a sort of… lost baby squirrel in a pixie cut sort of way.”</p><p>“Great,” he says, fumbling ineptly with the clasp on the bra. “Th… thanks, Lydia, that’s… quite the endorsement. I’m vermin.”</p><p>Lydia and Erica peaceably watch him fuck around with the hooks for a full five minutes, this look on their faces like justice is finally being delivered. Stiles refuses to lose his temper with the thing in front of them, so he just doggedly keeps at it. Eventually, Lydia says, “We might have to invest in a frontal clasp for you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Switching Goals

**Author's Note:**

> The strongest emotions Stiles has when he wakes up female are excitement and sadness. Excitement, because magic and vaginas, and sadness, because he misses his dick. “I miss my dick,” he tells Derek ten minutes into the discovery, and Derek looks at him funny.

“Already?” he says. “You’ve been a girl for all of—”

“I’m not a _girl_ , okay,” Stiles says, pointing. “I am _female-bodied_ , there’s a difference.” Derek rolls his eyes. “There _is_.”

“Can I… touch?” Derek asks nervously instead of engaging, and Stiles narrows his eyes, but drops it.

“Touch what,” he grumps. “My vagina? I don’t want to look at it right now.”

“No, the other.”

The _other_. It takes Stiles a second. Then he says loudly, “My tits?” Derek turns away, exasperated, and Stiles tosses his hands up violently. “You gotta—I mean, they’re not _swears_ , Derek, for fuck’s—yes. Yes, you can, lemme just—” Stiles grabs Derek’s hands, shoves them up his comically overlarge t-shirt. Presses them against his newfound breasts, and tries his darnedest to ignore the rush of heat he feels in his face. It’s weird, because he’s looking _up_ at Derek now. He’s so _tall_ , Stiles never _noticed_.

Derek’s hands move minutely, exploring, and Stiles’ breath catches.

“I, um, I think we should see, um, if Deaton knows anything about this,” Stiles says nervously.

“You should let go of my hands, then,” Derek returns.

Stiles swallows. “Yeah.” He does. In a minute.

::

“He’s so _tiny_ now,” Isaac says, amused, towering over Stiles next to Boyd.

“I’m _not tiny_ ,” Stiles snaps at the sky, where their heads are. “I’m, I’m average height, this is—”

“You’re actually kind of tiny,” says Allison, behind him, and Stiles startles. “What’re you, five feet tall? Five-one?” She grins wolfishly down at him.

He gulps. “You guys are freaking me out,” he admits. “ _Looming_ , and.”

Lydia scoffs, abruptly next to Boyd. She’s about Stiles’ height. Maybe an inch or two taller. But she’s wearing platform wedges, so she’s a lightyear tall, at Allison’s height. Allison is barefoot. “ _What_ are you _wearing_?”

Stiles looks down at himself. He’s sort of swimming in Derek’s shirt. It wasn’t too baggy on him when he was taller. Broader. Which isn’t to say he’s not still muscular. He’s just so _petite_. He’s got his father’s body type, now. His feet are _itty_. Well, comparatively. His jeans certainly didn’t fit, and tight as Derek wears his, those would still be too big. So he’s just in boxer shorts. He’s essentially in his pajamas.

“You didn’t even shave your legs,” complains Lydia.

“And I’m not _gonna_ ,” retorts Stiles.

“More power _to_ you,” Allison says. “It’s a stupid custom. I don’t shave mine unless I’m going to the pool.” She addresses Isaac. “More hydrodynamic.” Isaac flushes.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “I’m still taking you for a bra fitting,” she sniffs.

::

Stiles cautiously strips in front of the full-length mirror in the dressing room.

He’s still lean, still muscular, but much shorter, hands smaller than they were. Which isn’t to say they’re not still kind of big next to his bony wrists, but they are smaller. His knees are knobbly, his hip bones protrude, and his legs are hairy. He’s still not shaving, though.

The breasts are intriguing. He bites his lip and cups them awkwardly. They’re kind of small—flat, which the internet tells him is bad, but which his memory of Derek’s palms over them tells him is good. Red spots bite into his cheeks, and he can’t believe he’s being like this over Derek awkwardly flattening his hands on his chest for like five minutes this morning.

“Stiles!” Lydia bangs aggressively on the dressing room door, and Stiles jumps. “Are you ready yet?”

“What, you want to look at me in a bra?” he squawks back, mortified. He kind of _wants_ her to look at him naked, but not if she’s _appraising_ him. “I can do this myself,” he says acidly. “ _Thanks_.”

“Right, because you know so much about proper bra fit,” she says airily. “Unlock the door, Stilinski, I’m not crawling under like a nine-year-old.”

“Or like Stiles,” Stiles hears Erica say, and she and Lydia titter.

Stiles scowls wretchedly as he fumbles his way into the contraption. He knows, logically, that the cups go on his tits, and the straps go over his shoulders, but he can’t figure out the hooks in the back. He turns, tries to see in the mirror, and ends up hurting his neck, snagging the hook in the fabric of the bra. This is frustrating. He gives up. Clutches his plaid flannel to his chest and flings open the door. “I need tit assistance,” he says flatly.

Erica flounces straight into the dressing room, sits on the bench there, and Stiles hunches his shoulders defensively, glaring at her. “You look like Derek,” she muses, and he mimics her unattractively.

Lydia bustles behind him and hooks the bra without looking. “How do you do that,” he wonders, watching her move around him, adjusting things, and understanding things, and making stuff happen. She gives him a look so unimpressed he can taste it.

“We wear bras pretty regularly,” Erica tells him graciously, if a little pitying.

“You’re kind of cute,” Lydia says, changing the subject, “in a sort of… lost baby squirrel in a pixie cut sort of way.”

“Great,” he says, fumbling ineptly with the clasp on the bra. “Th… thanks, Lydia, that’s… quite the endorsement. I’m vermin.”

Lydia and Erica peaceably watch him fuck around with the hooks for a full five minutes, this look on their faces like justice is finally being delivered. Stiles refuses to lose his temper with the thing in front of them, so he just doggedly keeps at it. Eventually, Lydia says, “We might have to invest in a frontal clasp for you.”

::

Vaginas.

Stiles can’t figure his out.

He had twenty-one years of experience with his penis. He knew how it liked to be touched, how it didn’t like to be touched, how it would accept being touched if offered no alternative, how to get it up, how to get it off. Stiles knows how to work his dick. This, this is different. This is like a whole new version of software he’d gotten used to. It’s like when their desktop finally bit the dust and his grandma bought him a laptop, and he had to switch from Windows XP to Apple. Essentially the same shit is there, but it’s shaped different and in a different place, and there is vague information at best on the internet. He gets a little distracted watching porn for a bit, and then gives up on this practice, because it’s weird watching it if he’s not getting off on it.

And he’s not. Getting off on it. Or on anything. Because he doesn’t know _how_.

First he examines the thing. _The thing_ , it’s already got a nickname, he thinks blearily. He knows his way cursorily around it, because like everyone else, he took health, and like everyone else in his demographic, he’s well versed in porn, but he has no… _hands-on experience_.

On impulse, he goes digging in the bathroom for a hand mirror. Plops down on the edge of the bathtub and uses this to look at it. It’s so _weird_! He giggles, giddy and intrigued, poking at it.

He wishes it was socially acceptable to ask Lydia to help him with this, too. Not even in his typical, _I wish Lydia would interact with me sexually_ sort of way, but more in a _Lydia probably knows how to do this and could show me_ sort of way. Because clearly, vaginas aren’t genitals. They are _labyrinths_.

Just shy of an hour into his exploratory vagina session, Stiles is pretty clear on where all the orifices are, but still nowhere on the How To Orgasm front. Also, his wrist is tired. The whole experience is kind of disheartening.

He struggles gracelessly with his new bra and ends up pulling the thing over his head and throwing it onto the floor. He slips back into Derek’s t-shirt. Sighs, throws the bathroom door open, and finds himself face to face with Derek.

Well.

Face to chest. He tilts his head back. “Hi,” he says glumly, rubbing his nose.

“Hey,” Derek says, swaying towards him. “I bought condoms. In case you wanted to have sex.”

“I don’t think I’m capable of that,” Stiles says, looking absently down at where his enigmatic genitals are, present and taunting him. “Like, I’m not supposed to have these parts, so it would stand to reason they don’t work right. Like making you wear glasses. It’d look good, but they wouldn’t do anything for you.”

“Mind if I take a whack at it?” Derek asks drily.

Stiles feels his face go red again, and this really, really needs to stop. He’s not even being _erotic_ , he’s just _standing_ there with a Walgreen’s bag and—”Are those mini Reese’s?” Stiles asks, voice going high.

Derek hefts the bag up, offers it to Stiles. “You brought me cupcakes when I had rubella,” he says. “I thought I’d bring you Reese’s, since you’re a girl.”

“Vaginas and measles aren’t the same thing,” snaps Stiles, grabbing the candy. “And I’m _not a girl_.”

::

“I don’t—” Stiles huffs, fidgeting while Derek kisses his neck. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to have sex with me. To make me feel better about my new equipment.”

“Do you not want to?” Derek asks, leaning back.

“No,” Stiles says.

Stung, Derek scoots away. Says, “Okay, we—” but Stiles catches him with a hand fisted in his jacket. Take that stupid jacket off, get it _off_.

“I mean, yes,” Stiles says. “No, I don’t not want to. Yes, I _want_ to.” Derek squints at him, perplexed, but Stiles just plows on. “I just, I know you like my dick and stuff.” Derek’s hand settles on his knee, and _shit_ , that’s distracting. “I mean, I thought you did. We’ve never, um, talked about your sexuality before, we mostly talked about mine. But you don’t have to, have to do this. If you don’t want.”

Derek stares at him, eyebrows up. “Where to be _gin_ ,” he says mildly. Frowning, Stiles pops a mini Reese’s into his mouth. “I like your dick,” Derek says, brow furrowed heavily. “I also like this. I want to have sex with you. Like this. _Want_ to.”

“Not _need_ to?” wheedles Stiles. Derek shoves him, and he falls onto the pillows, cackling.

“Jesus,” says Derek, crawling up over him until he’s looking down at him. “You weigh about six pounds, now.” Stiles squirms under the intense scrutiny, swallows when Derek settles between his legs, hands sliding under the t-shirt, up his hips.

“Deaton weighed me,” Stiles tells him dumbly. “I weigh a hundred ten.”

“You have chocolate on your lip,” replies Derek.

“Oh,” says Stiles.

Derek brushes his mouth over Stiles’, sucking minutely, lapping the chocolate up and making Stiles’ _toes_ curl. Stiles slides his hands up Derek’s back, grips his shoulders and pulls until Derek’s hips slot against his.

::

Derek’s always been a good kisser, Stiles thinks, mostly because he is fully and passionately willing to kiss Stiles, and Stiles fucking loves kissing. There’s just something about the intimacy of it, and Stiles is aware it’s possible to kiss someone and have it mean nothing, but with Derek it always means something. Whether it’s to comfort Stiles, or to convey how he feels to Stiles, or just to kiss Stiles because kissing Stiles is fun. It doesn’t always lead to sex, but sometimes it does.

Derek lets Stiles undress him (more specifically, he lets Stiles snap, “Take this shit off, take it _off_ ,” and then Derek removes the article of clothing he indicated), and then he pulls the Star Trek t-shirt over his head and, for the first time since the thing happened, they’re naked together.

Stiles feels his whole body flush under Derek’s gaze, and Derek just eyes him hungrily. Stiles’ hips arch towards Derek helplessly. “Are you gonna,” he says, and then stops. Swallows. “Are you gonna touch me? Because I don’t know where I want you to touch me, I just want you to touch me.”

Derek looks up at him, shamelessly amused. “I like it when you’re nervous and eager at the same time.”

Stiles scowls, and then his eyes track Derek’s fingers steadily when they slide down from his chest between his legs. “I just, I just,” Stiles stammers, “I’ve never—you know I’ve never been with a woman, I don’t know—I mean, I’ve read, but it’s not—”

“There’s no map to sex,” Derek says, and Stiles flushes. He doesn’t like Derek being the reasonable one when he comes to sex. It’s so backwards and wrong.

“I know that,” he says defensively.

Derek quirks an eyebrow up at Stiles. “I was agreeing with you.” Stiles can’t argue with him, because Derek is touching him and it’s distracting. “Have you touched _yourself_?”

“A little,” admits Stiles. He swallows, watches Derek’s wrist intently. “I mean, it was mostly exploratory—for _science_. It wasn’t really, uh. Sensual. I _tried_ , but I haven’t, um.” He stops. Derek’s fingers glide right in, and Stiles’ mouth drops open. “ _God_ , that’s wet,” he exclaims, pinched. “Oh, jesus. Can you—put your dick in there, just—”

“Let’s not rush it,” says Derek absently. Pulls his fingers out and they’re _soaked_.

“B-but I wa, I _want_ … Don’t put those in your _mouth_ , oh my _god_.” He stares, outraged, as Derek deliberately disobeys him, eyes shut. Stiles darts a hand down where Derek’s fingers were, just to feel. He’s never produced his own lube before; he’s definitely gonna miss that. “What, um. What does it taste like.”

Derek smirks. “Like you,” he says, and then before Stiles can react, Derek’s mouth is on him.

::

Stiles jerks like a puppet, and Derek makes a noise of shock when Stiles’ hips buck up under his mouth. “D- _erek_ ,” Stiles says desperately.

Derek hums vacantly, the vibrations making Stiles shudder. He pins Stiles’ hips back against the mattress, and moves one hand up to press the pad of his thumb against Stiles’ clit. Stiles’ stomach tightens, and he gasps, giggles somewhat hysterically.

“Oh, shit,” he says, twitching uncontrollably. “Oh, jesus shit—” His leg jerks against his will, and Derek takes his mouth off of Stiles to say, “Ow, what the—”

“I am so sorry,” Stiles says, earnest, breathless. “It just, oh god, it just _happened_.” With a groan, he puts his hands over his face. “Jesus, it’s like I’m a virgin all over again.”

“Yeah,” Derek says warmly. Stiles peeks through his fingers, watches Derek rub his wrist on his chin, wiping spit and Stiles out of his beard. “Let’s try that one more time,” he says, hoarse.

“I don’t wanna kick you in the floating ribs again,” Stiles protests, but Derek just grins down at Stiles’ vagina like it’s his favourite dish being served to him on his birthday.

“I don’t mind,” he says dreamily.

Stiles huffs. “You really like this, don’t you.” Derek gives him a flat look, but Stiles just leers. “That wasn’t mindless dirty talk, Der. You really, really like this.”

Wryly, Derek moves to get up. “If that makes you uncomfortable, I can just…”

“Get your mouth back on my clit,” Stiles snaps. “Fucker.”

Derek doesn’t even dignify that with a response. He ducks back down where he was with a soft little moan, pushes his fingers back into Stiles. Stiles watched it happen, he was expecting it, so there’s really no excuse for the noise he made.

::

Stiles is about sixty-eight percent sure he’s hyperventilating. He also can’t stop pleading incoherently for Derek not to stop, _don’tstopdon’tstop_ , which might potentially be embarrassing in the near future because Derek clearly shows no intent to stop.

“Derek,” Stiles says warningly, but the words are evading him, because Derek’s _tongue_ and his _fingers_. This isn’t new—just, it’s too much, and he can’t— “Derek _derek_ —”

With a sharp inhale, Stiles tenses up and comes with a strangled sob. Hits the pillows and pants. “I think I just came up your nose,” he says from beneath the filmy layers of orgasm.

“Not up it,” Derek says, smirking. “Near it.” He sits up, pops his back, and Stiles eyes his dick, its blood-darkened head, with sudden, palpable intrigue.

“You’re hard,” he says, awed, propping himself up on his elbows. Hard from that.

“You taste good,” shrugs Derek.

Stiles isn’t entirely sure how to feel about that. In fact, he isn’t entirely sure how to feel anything but faintly buzzing ecstasy. He decides on _flattered_. Lies back down and waves a hand weakly towards Derek’s bag of Walgreen’s booty. “You should get a condom and put your dick in me now.”

::

Stiles has always secretly enjoyed how the bed creaks. It makes the sex they have needlessly obscene, like their life isn’t just two dudes in faded t-shirts having joyous, lazy sex in late, summer afternoons, like it’s some kind of hilariously overblown porno. As Stiles is under Derek, one hand stealing under the pillows to clench at the headboard (which is clunking against the wall as if the mattress and the noises they’re making aren’t enough of a siren call), he laughs breathlessly, wondering if any of their neighbours are home, listening to them.

“I wonder,” he gasps, “I wonder, i-if those potheads are, um—”

“You’re thinking about _potheads_ right now?” Derek asks roughly, tugging on Stiles’ legs until he coils them around his waist.

“I’m _thinking_ about the fact that—ah—that they’ve never heard a lady screaming your name before,” Stiles says. “Fuck—”

Derek grins against Stiles’ neck, getting the joke. “They’ll think I’m cheating on you.”

“They will,” Stiles agrees. Pushes his hips up to meet Derek’s. “They don’t know you like I do.”

Derek bends to suck a mark on Stiles’ chest, where he’s put marks before, but he’s never had _breasts_ there before. Stiles likes them. Mostly he likes the way Derek’s hands look spread over them, the way the nipples look disappearing into Derek’s mouth. Humming with pleasure, Stiles leans his head back so Derek will bite his neck— _god_ , but he loves that. One of Derek’s hands moves down to his clit again. “Y’wanna come for me one more time?” he asks, and Stiles fucking _wheezes_.

“Jesus _christ_ , baby—”

It doesn’t take Derek too long to break after Stiles comes. Stiles thinks muzzily of Derek’s muscles and the desperate face he makes. Watches him tense and shudder through heavy-lidded eyes. Derek’s elbows give out, and he sort of flops half on top of Stiles—par for the course.

“Hmmm,” Stiles sighs after an indeterminable length of time spent kissing lazily. “Der.”

Derek blinks sleepily at him, one thumb tracing the line of Stiles’ rib cage.

“You think I’m tiny?”

“I think you’re microscopic,” Derek says.

They stare at each other. Stiles punches him in the floating ribs.

::

The sun is setting, and Stiles is dozing, because Derek's chest is warm under his cheek, his arms are nice and heavy around him, and he needs some rest before he'll get over the shower sex. He stretches his legs, reaching his toes are far as they'll go. They brush Derek's ankle. He starts to drift back off to sleep.

Suddenly, Derek says, "Scott's here," and Stiles jolts out of bed, hits the floor with a thud.

"Jesus, you'd think I'd be less clumsy," Stiles grumbles, pulling up his shorts and heading to the bedroom door. Then he stops short. "Shirt," he says, like something's dawning on him afresh. "I need to wear shirts now!"

"I _guess_ ," Derek says.

Stiles ignores him. "Where's my shirt?" He looks around cursorily. He can't find it. It must be in the bathroom. "Gimme your shirt."

"What?" Derek leans away from Stiles' swipe. "No. Put on a clean one."

"They're all dirty, they're all in the bathroom, gimme your _shirt_."

"What about the button-up ones?"

"Bathroom! _Shirt_!"

Stiles grabs, pulls on Derek's shirt, and Derek resists, just because he's a dick. They end up wrestling for it, because give Stiles a reason to climb on top of Derek, just _give_ him one. Stiles wins, pinning Derek's wrists against the pillows.

"I win," he says shittily. "Gimme your stupid shirt." Suddenly, Derek overturns them, pressing Stiles into the mattress, and Stiles giggles. "Or we could just do this some more," he adds, letting Derek fit between his thighs. Derek flatly gives him a dubious look, and then pulls his t-shirt over his head sinuously, an act Stiles appreciates vehemently.

Derek tosses his shirt onto Stiles' face. "Go talk to Scott," he says, rolling off of Stiles.

::

Stiles comes out of the bedroom to find Scott in the kitchen, singing "Everyone one else in the room can see it, everyone else but you…" to himself. He beams when Stiles shuffles in there, trying to scrape his hair flat so it looks slightly less like he got fucked against a shower wall and then fell asleep the second he made it to the bed. Scott doesn't notice.

"I just got back from Deaton's, he figured out your spell."

Stiles raises his eyebrows. "My spell."

"For the girlness," Scott says, frowning.

"Oh!" Stiles giggles, because for a couple hours, there, he actually forgot he wouldn't always be like this. He won't always be like this. He imagines the next couple years of cuddling up to Derek in bed and going, _Remember that one day when I had a vagina?_ and Derek sighing wistfully and saying, _Yeah. Good times._ Shaking his head to dispel the weird thought, Stiles pulls the fridge open, reaches for the milk. "So what's the diagnosis?"

"He looked it up, it's just a confusion spell. Should wear off after twenty-four hours."

Stiles pulls the corners of his mouth down, nods knowingly. "Parting is such sweet sorrow," he directs at his chest, to Scott's amusement. "You wanna hang out for a while?"

"Nah, I gotta get back to work."

Stiles watches Scott leave, and after a moment of hesitation, he darts to the door, hangs over the stoop, and calls, "Really, dude? One Direction?"

"That's what makes you beautiful," Scott yells back from the parking lot.

Stiles shuts the door, a massive grin on his face.

::

Stiles wakes up sometime just before dawn with a boner, and squeezes his arms around Derek's waist. "Der," he says. Kicks Derek's calf, jolting him awake. "I have a dick again," he mumbles into the space between Derek's shoulder blades.

Derek squirms, turning over in Stiles' arms, and nuzzles against Stiles' neck, hands groping along the broad planes of his chest, the slope of his hip. "Good," he says drowsily.

"Good? You don' miss it?"

"I'll probably miss it," Derek disagrees, slides one hot palm up Stiles' shirt. "But I liked you the way you were."

Stiles can't quite suppress a giddy, toothy smile, so he hides it in Derek's hair, even though there's no one else to see it. "I love you," he mutters. "More than Star Wars."

"That is a lot," Derek tells his throat.

"Meant every word." Stiles scritches his fingers in Derek's hair, sighing happily. "Besides," he adds, as they're both falling asleep again. "You've got enough boobs for the both of us."

Derek punches him in the floating ribs.

**Author's Note:**

> You had to know I would make a terrible 90s movie reference if I could.  
> 
> 
> Stiles is right, though. A vagina does not a girl make.


End file.
